


The One With The Proverbial Love Letter

by WhoreOfPromethea



Series: A Clone And An Irwin Walk Into A Bar [3]
Category: Newsflesh Trilogy - Mira Grant
Genre: Adopted Sibling Incest, Bittersweet, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Mild Angst, a love letter of sorts, references to past trauma and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 12:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15774411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoreOfPromethea/pseuds/WhoreOfPromethea
Summary: Georgia II knows few things for certain, but above all, she knows this: Shaun comes before everything now. Even blogging. And maybe she’s okay with that.





	The One With The Proverbial Love Letter

There have been several occasions where I have reacted to something differently than the original Georgia Mason would have. That three percent differential defines a part of me as my own. A reminder that some small part of me is mine to decide upon. 

I am freer with touch; I reach for Shaun’s hand more frequently than she did. I hug more often. I go to him for comfort. 

I am not frail, but a part of me feels as if I’m softer than she was. Shaun thinks it may be trauma related, and maybe he’s right. Or maybe that’s just how this Georgia, the Georgia That I Am, is. She was never cold, not really, but I am less so. It’s harder for me to hide my emotions. I cry, freely, now that I can. 

At first I expected those differences to disappoint Shaun. I wasn’t Georgia enough, maybe. Maybe that three percent really was too big. When I asked him, though, he said nothing but just held me, shaking. 

“You’re more than enough. Don’t you dare ever think you aren’t.” He wasn’t angry with me, I realised, but at the thought that I was upset. That I thought I wasn’t good enough for him anymore. 

The differentials had taken him a little getting used to, but now he’d just smile and say “that’s new” - if he even commented on it at all. 

I was so, so grateful to him for that. It couldn’t have been easy for him. Sometimes I still saw or heard him talking to the ghost of me that lived in his head. That didn’t matter, either. I wasn’t jealous of a ghost. 

The ghost didn’t have to contend with nightmares about the tank room, though. About the Other Georgias, whose lives I had taken without much care. Okay, that wasn’t true. Of course I had cared, but god. I wasn’t about to let the CDC plant a twisted replacement for me. 

I had described the tank room to Shaun, once. We’d both had nightmares, after that, so I didn’t mention it again. It was mine to contend with, just like the varying parade of nightmares Shaun had that were not shared. 

I’d never been the white picket fence type; they were impractical, for starters. Maybe that was another differential, or maybe death just does that to a person, but all of a sudden I was happy to just exist, in our extremely secured little house (courtesy of one Ms Magdalene Grace Garcia) with Shaun and our ghosts, working through our pain together. 

It wasn’t perfect, nor was any attempt at a love letter to our relationship that either of me have ever tried, but it was ours. Our lives were once and truly ours again, with no parents or conspiracies or death to contend with. For once, we were truly free, and together. It was what the original Georgia Mason had wanted, just a little less than she had wanted the truth. 

Me? I was okay with this being my first priority. With Shaun taking priority over all else. Even blogging. 

Maybe with that attitude, we’d live to ripe old ages. Personally, I didn’t care, so long as I could start and end each day where I belonged: with him.


End file.
